


Guidance

by brittlelimbs



Series: Guidance 'Verse [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pining, Power Imbalance, Premature Ejaculation, Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:09:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8604802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: The second time Mister Graves kisses him, it’s on his hand. (Or, all the times Mister Graves kisses Credence, and why)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaaaa i came out of the theater and immediately this is what happened. im so sorry

The second time Mister Graves kisses him, it’s on his hand. The first time was a chaste, dry thing against his brow, just barely-there enough for Credence to think: _this is how it feels_. He hadn’t known.

Mister Graves’s hands are big and warm from being stuffed in the pockets of his greatcoat against the chill, and they feel good on his own. He holds it up to the light, examining the welts across his palm in the yellowburn of tungsten street lamp, and grunts.

“She did y’ good, this time, didn’t she?” he says. Credence couldn’t comment on the severity, index it better or bad or worst on the great, terrible scale of repentances Ma’s inflicted, but he nods anyways. When he looks up, Mister Graves is looking at him in an odd way that he can’t quite identify. “Oh, Credence,” he breathes, as if the words themselves hurt to say. Perhaps it’s softness, or pity.

Then Mister Graves raises Credence’s hand to his mouth and drinks of it, and Credence is surprised at the gentleness. His breath is cool in the cupped well of his palm, and his lips are chapped, brushing gingerly against the angry, miserable wounds, sweetsting. Credence ducks his head and shivers at the feeling. At once the lips are gone and there’s a hand at the back of his neck, Mister Graves pulling him gently against his chest to anchor there. He smells of ash and sharp aftershave, pomade.

“She’ll never be able to hurt you, ever. Never again, Credence,” he murmurs across the shell of his ear, chin hooked over his shoulder. Credence realizes that they’re nearly the same height, if he doesn’t slouch.

“Find the child, and I promise you.”

Credence nods and nods into Mister Graves collar, thrumming with anxiousness to please, to make him _happy._ He vows to himself, once, then again, to double down as he searches the faces of the dirty little urchins while they grub for handouts. He may be ugly, and scrawny, and slow, but his eyes are keen. He can give Mister Graves that much, at least. Knows he owes more.

When they part, Credence winces at how Mister Graves has to extricate himself from his stupid, clinging arms, shaking loose from where Credence’s numb hands are clawed into the back of his coat.

At once, his wand is in his hand as he takes Credence’s own in his other once more, pressing his thumb into the meat of it to give better access. “Don’t forget,” he says, gruff and soft, as the bliss flows, free and silvery, from the tip. “Keep looking.”

“Yes, Mister Graves,” he replies once the healing is has run its course, squeezing his knit-clean palm as Graves pulls away, testing it for durability. Stupid; as if his—as if this _man_ would leave him anything but whole.

Then the air slurps Graves up as usual, miraculous, and Credence shivers; the alley feels a little colder alone.

 

The third time Mister Graves kisses him, it’s on the wrist, over his bandages, and Credence can’t stop crying.

The night is horrific, black-blue, and there’s a kiss and a charm and another promise. A sweet one: “When you need me, touch this, and I’ll come. No matter where I am, I’ll come. I swear it.”

Mister Graves whispers this promise until they’re both shivering in their coats and the sobs wracking Credence’s body are silent.

 

 

The fourth time Mister Graves kisses him, it’s on the mouth. Just a little south, actually, clumsy with adrenaline and bliss. A little fear, maybe. Awe.

“Credence!” he’s crying. “It’s you!” _It’s you!_

Mister Graves has him pinned against the wreckage of his sister’s house, rebar and brick, big hands all over him. There’s crumbled plaster on the collar of his jacket, in his hair, and he’s touching Credence like he’s the last good thing on God’s green earth; as if he can hardly believe that he’s _real_.

“What happened?” Credence’s voice feels stuck in his throat. “Where’s Modesty?”

 _Oh, Credence_ , he hums again, but this time, it’s different. More lovely, somehow. “You were so wonderful. So—beautiful. And strong.”

Nobody has ever called him those things, not once. What’s wrong with Mister Graves? Is he hurt? Credence remembers nothing but darkness, nothing but wrath. Mister Graves called him some strange, awkward sounding word _, slapped him,_ and it hurt him more than Ma’s punishments ever did—

Mister Graves kisses him. Credence thinks, at some point, forearms starting to go numb under the force of Grave’s grip: _this is a sin_. It feels too good to be anything else. Mister Graves tastes like plaster dust and coffee and immorality.

Their lips part with a soft, subtle sound that makes Credence’s heart beat at least three times faster at its gentleness. “You’re my boy, Credence,” Mister Graves says, like a prayer, like a vow, breath whuffing into the intimate space between their mouths, brushing a thumb under the blunt fringe of his bangs. His eyes are pitch-dark and heavy. 

“ _Mine.”_

Credence, for lack of any other truth, finds that he believes this.

 

 

The fifth time Mister Graves kisses him is right-quick after the fourth, and the sixth soon after that. Then the seventh, then _eighth_ \--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess there's a part two to this thing now?? idk

Credence likes baths. This tub’s a tiny thing, too small for his long, scrawny legs; one of his feet is propped over the edge, nearly close enough for him to toe at ceramic tile of the wall, but he doesn’t mind so much. This is a luxury he was rarely allowed to enjoy, once—that time feels like a different life entirely, like a storybook, or one of those incredible moving photographs Mister Graves likes to unfold from pockets, occasionally. The crease between Ma’s brows when she said _Belt_ , barely remembered. The thin taste of gruel and meal. His bunk mattress, thin, so thin that he sometimes felt the rumble of the cars outside on the road as he slept, jangling a midnight beat up through the wooden frame and into the marrow of his bones.

He allows himself to stretch a bit, creak his narrow frame. Steam rises from his chest and gathers lazily around the buzzing ceiling lamp in a vast, soft cloud, seeping leisurely through the cracked window and into the winteriness of the city outside.

_Drip._

He hasn’t felt so warm in years. The water was too hot to even step in, at first, fresh after Mister Graves had drawn the bath, looking terrifyingly handsome with his button-up curled around his elbows. _Come here, Credence. There’s a good boy_. Credence, coming: all knock-knees and anxiousness, unbuttoning the front of his dirty waistcoat one trembling fasten at a time. Mister Graves had to help him negotiate the complexity of his belt and trousers, leaning over perfectly into his space to put one hand on his waist and the other the buckle, methodical and slow. “Sorry, sir,” Credence mumbled, shaking as he felt Grave’s knuckles brush against the stupid, unholy arousal under the tweed of his fly, fiddling with the beltloops. He was too close; every kiss on Credence, he was responsible for. Each one, layer upon hot layer of them, drawing Credence’s lips so sluggish and loose, he could hardly speak for their weight. Then the belt slithered free, and Mister Graves was gripping it, looped and coiled round and round his right hand like a black snake, and Credence couldn’t—

Mister Graves was holding him again, simple as that. “Sorry,” whined Credence into a pressed plane of shirt, belt gone, but fear persisting. “Sorry, sorry.” He was trembling. Mister Graves just shushed and squeezed him tighter, the sheer softness of it cringeworthy, horrific, embarrassing.

_Drip._

The faucet has big, shiny handles, plated brass, crusted with a hint of lime stain that Credence has to catch his distaste at, knowing instantly the pound of flesh this kind of laziness would’ve cost at home. But this isn’t the House, and after the thought rattles around in his chest for a moment, all anxious-flutter and nostalgia, it settles. He runs his hands on the downy underside of his thighs, upsetting the perfumed water, and decides it's the most regal looking faucet he’s ever seen. Yes. All long, bold lines and elegant durability. Just like Mister Graves.

With a deep, slow breath, something too soft to be considered a sigh, he leans back and sinks down, tipping the curvature of his neck to rest on the twin curvature of the porcelain rim. He lets his eyes drop closed at the lovely sensation of the hot water overtaking his collarbones, surface tension rolling up and up until it collars his neck, kisses his nape. God must hate him for this, he thinks. To feel this much pleasure, to know this lassitude.

_Drip._

He wonders how Mister Graves bathes. Slowly, he hopes. With the company of a good book, maybe, pressed slacks and tie and scarf hung up dutifully in the wardrobe, day’s work done and done. Or-- a leisurely cigarette. Oh, but Credence can picture that: the long column of Mister Grave’s neck as he tilts just-so to let the smoke trail from his lips and out that little window. Arms and legs splayed as his are, now, but set with a confident sort of sensibility Credence craves and lacks with a need edging on sickness. He has no reference save for the secondhand solidness and warmth he’s scavenged overtop of coats, buttonups, and undershirts, but he imagines Mister Grave’s body. What that must look like. The strength corded in those forearms, and how that must reflect in the rest of him, strong chest and strong thighs. Well-cut. _Thick_. Credence finds himself shivering at the word, a weird heat budding in him, dangerous and only vaguely familiar. He thinks, for a moment, of the last time he’d brought himself off, shameful and dirty-quick, and shuts his eyes again as he slips a hand beneath the surface of the water. He brushes the length of himself, so hot, swelling. Ugly memories. But this— Credence draws his lip between his teeth as he finds purchase with his palm (his new palm, his perfect palm) and squeezes, the heat of the water somehow heightening the feeling, making it more indulgent.

He brings himself off, thinking, unabashedly, of Mister Graves and nothing else. The spiciness of his scent and the strength of his arms, the way he’d spent countless evenings lounging in the same tiny, sweet tub Credence is _sinning_ in now. He comes too quickly, hitching up tight with a gasp and a moan that rings lewdly off the tiled walls, clouding the water in spurts.

His chest is red and splotchy as he comes down, heaving with the hugeness of his gulped breaths. He feels lightheaded, light-limbed, and God must despise him for this.

The steam rises from Credence's body. He thinks of the smudge of ash he’d found at the corner of Grave’s mouth, poised over him as they partook of each other in the rubble of bricks, the miserable wreckage, and finds he minds much less of God’s opinion than he once did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence has an issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this is just porn for no reason

He can hardly be blamed, really, because Mister Graves puts his mouth on his cock. That in and of itself, the sheer _articulation_ of the act, _Graves_ and _mouth_ and _cock_ in quick conjunction, is—Credence has no words for this. But Mister Graves has words. He has intent, too, and that’s doubly dangerous. In fact, he declares it, simple and plain as a bank statement or Bible verse, leaned long between the vee of Credence’s bare, trembling legs, tie pooling silky against his hollow chest in the space between them:

“I’m going to make you come with my mouth, now, Credence. Would you like that?”

 _Yes,_ Credence thinks he would like that, so much, though _come_ is a command only recently added to his vocabulary and the sin of obeying it is in a similar state of newness, as such. Mister Graves is so close over him, now, that his lashes look dark and heavy, cedarsweet, and new stubble is legible on his jaw and upper lip (Credence will have to shave him again, tomorrow; he trembles). The shadow he casts smells like sweat and pomade and a little bit of peril. It envelopes Credence completely, and he can feel himself growing stiff.

Graves shifts lower onto his elbows and further into Credence’s space. “Answer.” His thumb presses to the hollow of Credence’s throat, rough, warm.

“Yes,” Credence whispers, turning his head into the pillow. It smells like Mister Graves. Everything smells like Mister Graves.

“Yes, _what_ , Credence.”

 _Oh, Christ_. “Yes, I’d like you to m-make me—come. With your mouth.” And there they are, draped over the dresser and the little bedside table, hanging like smoke in the burnished warmth of Mister Grave’s bedroom: those covetous words. All his neediness, laid bare. He suddenly feels more naked than he has ever been, not even _born_ like this, skin goose-pebbled with it, ashamed and dizzy with the rush of blood to his cock. He’s so hard. Grave’s brow creases, eyes glittering and keen, and Credence tacks on a few words of his own: a shrewd _sir_ , a _please_.

Mister Graves recedes from him slowly, deliberately, like a tide might, or shadow in the face of dawn, hands rasping on the sheets as he seats himself on his haunches. He towers over Credence. He’s still in his pressed shirt and slacks from the day, socked feet an oddly intimate referral to his comfort; Credence’s heart quickens because he’s the one who gets to see Mister Graves like this, all his argyle lacadaisy. He’s the chosen worshipper with communion to bite down on and savor, some tangible, real proof of his namesake that tastes like sweat and fine cologne.

Mister Graves pauses, sighs, and descends between his anxious disciple’s legs.

The sight of Credence’s own arousal is still so strange to him, lewd; a sick feedback loop of disbelief and indulgence that makes his cock twitch against his thigh in a pulse of abject lust, pushing it against Mister Grave’s jaw as he noses down-close. Mister Graves does not speak, but flexes the grit of his teeth, once, twice, as if preparing for effort. As if Credence is a feast that needs much finesse to consume properly. Credence whimpers. He’s so high with anticipation that even just the feeling of hot breath against him is exquisite.

“Ah—“ he cries, “oh—“

Mister Grave presses scalding, heavy kisses to the tip of his cock. The rudeness of it is insane. A fine upper lip and a plush lower one, the same mouth that had gracefully sipped the too-bitter cup of Arabica Credence had brewed for him this morning, tie hanging undone across his broad shoulders in anticipation of the day, casual, perfect. The same mouth he’s seen whisper spells to ensnare him in their morningdew-silky strands, looped round and round and round—

Credence can hardly be blamed for coming all over Mister Grave’s face after he’s barely kissed his cock. Not his fault.

Before he can string thoughts together between great gulps of breath, in some hazy, flushed limbo of post-orgasm space, he marvels at his body, prolific and healthy; there’s just _so much_ of it. He wants, immediately, to go again, and then again. Go until he is utterly spent and Mister Graves is drenched in it, rub it right into his cheekbones until it flakes dry and cracks.

There is nothing peculiar to this urge, Mister Graves assures Credence. After, once he’s wiped the spend from his point-slicked eyelashes, caught the pearls beading from his upper lip with pink darts of tongue.

_Nothing strange at all._

 

\--

 

Outside it is December and wintery and cold but inside the subway car, it’s hot. _Click-clack_ and the stifled sighs of steamy breath its confines, stacked in like sardines in wool coats and pantyhose. Easier to move around the city this way, says Mister Graves. Harder to be detected. Credence believes him even if he’s not quite sure about the why or the who of it; doesn’t matter. The warmth of Mister Grave’s body packed around his is too good, too close, to care.

They’ve been at it since 5th street, three stops after they slipped on at the station nooked under the department store, and will ride four stops more. Easy posturing: Credence, nearly pressed to the humming metal body of the car, hands folded into the pockets of his coat. Mister Graves, overlapping just-so at his side, blending on the edge between second-glance closeness and just plain lack of space, one hand slung slack from the handhold above in the perfect image of nonchalance.

He’s—rubbing with the other. Credence stifles his groans against his lip, feeling Mister Grave’s thumb trace his fly, push into the stiffness he’s coaxing there. Minutes have felt like hours and Credence hovers just one bare breath from pressing his face full-on into Grave’s shoulder, pursed lips brushing fine wool, tip of his nose pricking the boxed shoulder seam of his coat. They go around a bend, and the bones of the car crinkle and sigh. Someone jostles Graves, which, by proxy, jostles Credence, which, by proxy, makes the pleasure even more unbearable, needy and hot enough to earn a whimper. Mister Grave’s hand manages an awkward shuffle from the rung to the back of Credence’s neck, sandwiched in between the wall and his boy.

“Do you wish they would hear?” he murmurs, so low, so low. Credence says something back but the housewife with an elbow in his side coughs and he has to prompt again.

Credence’s swallow is an audible thing. “No, sir.”

“I’m an honest man, Credence, and I think that you do. You want them to hear and you want them to _know_.” He embellishes this with a lusty squeeze, and marvels. “You’re so hard.”

Credence trembles.

Graves looks on over his boy’s shoulder at the underside of hatbrims, napes of necks, barber and hairdresser handiwork. Evidence of the light snow outside rests crystalline in updos, melted and dappled across workwear. He wonders what they think he’s saying, or if they can even hear him.

Below: his sinful right hand continues. Lazy circles, cruel finessing strokes.

Credence twists his head away and closes his eyes, hoping, desperately, that nobody can hear his heart for the sheer heaviness of its beating. Like a boxer in his chest, blows punching through his bone, his skin and clothes, and sinking into Graves where they’re latched together by the bustle of rush-hour traffic. He thinks, hazily, that they must be nearing the next stop, but this has no beginning and no end. He bucks into Mister Grave’s hand as subtly as he can, giving in and muffling himself into the hard plane of shoulder right there, offered perfect, as if Graves was built his height just so Credence could quench his needy moans and sighs in the bulk of him. Every part of him feels set to split from his squeezed-tight skin, bundled in by all these put-upon, plain, ordinary people who know nothing of the _debauchery_ that is going on amidst them, close enough to brush against—

“I’m hardly touching you,” Graves says privately, to him and him alone.

“You are a miracle.”

Mister Graves presses his whole palm to Credence, who melts and shudder-sighs because that is simply the end of it. Warmth seeps everywhere, molten-hot, shameful in heathered twill.

“Credence,” Graves whispers, voice smug, just a tad. “Did you wet yourself, again?”

Again. Oh, God— _again_. He’s right.

Credence swoons. Has to spend the rest of the ride tucked embarrassingly against Mister Graves, whose hand has retired since from Credence’s soiled crotch to his hip; his legs can’t hold him any longer.

\--

 

In the end, Mister Graves has to hex him.

A quick curse, guttural and low, something that sounds like a mongrel second-sibling to the lushness of the spells he’s cast around Credence before, little transfigurations or mendings of this or that; this one is different and bad-sounding on principle.

“So you’ll abstain,” he says, huffed out under his breath. And then pushes inside him, just like that: Credence’s thighs pushed up close to his chest, wand laid down in a straight black line on the creamy sheets beside them, crumpled with the weight of Mister Grave’s aching knees as they dent into the mattress. They sigh, and hum, and adjust to each other with more slow kindness than Credence thought possible. Then no kindness at all, more curses as they find a pace, something brutal and perfect, but markedly less magical. Credence stays silent absolutely, much too full up with Mister Graves to speak, the stretch and the burn encompassing the whole of his body so entirely as to be perfect. It’s not even—good. It’s just too much, and that’s enough. More than, even.

Mister Graves sits back, rolling his hips into curt little thrusts that make Credence squirm, try to find purchase on the mattress with the soles of his bare feet.

“I’ll have this, Credence. For as long as I need. You’ll give me this. ”

And there it is: a vendetta for each of Credence’s puny failings, his overeagerness, his shivering inexperience and need. A man half-exacting, half mad, leaning down and in and taking again, over, over over. Credence’s legs tremble and his breath catches and his cock jumps anxiously against his belly with the pleasure of the long, hard strokes—but he does not come.

He can’t.

His ass stings, badly, but his cock throbs worse; every single bit of him burns, unquenchably, with the need for a release he can’t find anywhere, even as his hands search the dips and swells of Mister Grave’s chest while their skin chafes at each thrust, hiked up. His cock is so swollen and angry, it feels bruised between their bodies. It hurts.

“ _Please_ , sir.” Credence does not know if he’s asking for him to stop right this instant or never, not ever.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so _weak_ , it’s too much—“

Graves moans long and low, rutting in earnest, now, and Credence quiets, somewhere way out past the horizon of his own arousal. Seeing is difficult. Mister Graves wound-tight face is like a specter above him, jaw clenched with the effort of taking his pleasure, and Credence should have climaxed at the sight eons ago, but the bitter word is wrapped around his cock and balls like a vice, stoppering him. He feels full enough to burst.

Finally, there’s a grunt, and a deluge of hot slickness. Graves fucks him through it, pushing his come into Credence until it trickles down onto his tailbone, the sheets. Credence mewls.

His cock stands straight up, red and weeping, accusatory, when, with much effort, Graves peels himself away and sits back far enough to allow them both some room to breathe. He regards Credence, satiation hanging drowsily from the bold lines of his body like a robe.

“That’s good. Would you like to finish?”

“Yes. _Yes_ , please.” Some part of Credence is humiliated at the raw need in his voice, the other part doesn’t care; this is so much. He needs no prompting to beg, to babble. _Yes, Mister Graves, please let me finish, please let me come, I need to, thank you._

_Thank you._

There is something in Mister Grave’s eyes that Credence does not recognize, something accumulated over long weeks of companionship, maybe, or suspense. His wand makes no sound against the sheets as he picks it up, the shape of it so dark and so cruel and so strong, and he wields it gracefully. The sight is incredible. Credence trembles in abject need as he anticipates the bliss, the forgiveness, the long-waited _release_ —

 

“ _Crucio!”_

 

And, thusly, his deliverance is received, warm and wet across his spasming thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me @ second-salemite on tumblr about these guys/this trash ship any time!


End file.
